


may mercy find us

by Edie_Rone



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, it was a hard old world out there kids, remember how illegal weed used to be?, weed edibles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edie_Rone/pseuds/Edie_Rone
Summary: God, god, he has so little to be grateful for right now, but her trust — and the relief of her agony, however temporary — these things he finds himself telling over and over in his mind like the beads of a rosary for a religion of which he is the sole devotee.





	may mercy find us

It had been a bad day, the worst in a string of them. She’d left at noon, grey-faced and sweaty at the temples, without even an attempt at a covering excuse, just: “I have to go home.” He’d wanted to drive her there, or call a car service, but she clearly needed what dignity she had left; he’d just nodded as if this were a completely normal thing and let her go under her own power. 

But as soon as he’d heard the elevator ding, he’d been up from his seat, into his jacket and out of the building. He couldn’t wait for Frohike to tinker with the fucking recipe anymore; he needed the goods today, and who gave a shit what they tasted like. 

Admitted to the inner sanctum, he put up with the lengthy instructions and warnings: _this one tastes the best, but this one’s faster-acting; this one is best for soothing anxiety - knocks the heebie-jeebies right out; this one’s the strongest painkiller; this one stops nausea but it’ll put your ass right to sleep; don’t let her eat more than one of these in particular until you see how it affects her._

It was on the tip of his tongue to bark impatiently at his old friend, tell him to drop the Cheech-and-Chong/spirit-guide bit and just give him the goddamned stuff, but Frohike’s eyes stopped him — the guy was perilously close to tears, and Mulder realized that the effort he’d put into developing the THC-laced lollipops and brownies and caramels was for her, not him. He accepted the contraband with a surge of abject humbleness; mumbled his profound thanks, his own eyes stinging and heart twisted with grief. 

He put the bag in his trunk, stuffed into his gym duffel under several days’ worth of sweaty workout clothes. He drove like he was making a safety education video: Hands at ten and two, under the speed limit, signaling every lane change, following at a distance of three car lengths. But his relief at making it to her place without attracting police attention was short-lived; now that he was here, he had to go in, and once he was in, he had to do what he came to do. And what he’d come to do was: Ease a dying woman’s pain.

***************

Ear pressed against the door, he can hear the TV: _“Snakes. Why does it have to be snakes?”_

Her well-worn copy of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, getting another run-through; maybe she’s feeling better? She doesn’t respond to his soft knock, so he lets himself in, thinking she might be asleep. And at first glance, it looks to be the case. She’s curled up on the couch, an impossibly tiny ball under a blanket with only her hair sticking out. 

But then she groans, mutters “Fuck!”, and reaches blindly toward her coffee table, trying to grab the glass of ice water perched at the edge of it. He goes over to help her, putting the glass in her hand and helping her sit up to drink it. Up this close, he can smell the coppery tang of blood from the wads of Kleenex in the wastebasket at her side, and the faint but lingering scent of vomit from the direction of the bathroom. 

It’s a measure of how bad things are that she lets him help her, doesn’t apologize for the state of her surroundings, and leans gratefully against his shoulder without a word. He’s afraid to speak; he might start crying and never stop. 

Onscreen, Indiana Jones keeps adventuring handsomely. “Distraction,” Scully mutters, and he nods understanding. He finds his voice at last. 

“Hey, Scully, I brought you something that might make you feel better,” he says. She makes a vaguely inquiring noise, and he presses on: “It’s, uh, something — well, it’s kind of medicine, but not from a pharmacy? Uh. Frohike made it, I asked him to do it but it’s his work, and — ok, I know you might say no to this, but just hear me out —”

“Pot brownies?” she asks hoarsely, with the closest thing to a laugh he’s heard from her in days, weeks maybe. 

He pulls back to look at her, genuinely astonished. “How did you know that?”

“I went to public high schools,” she half-smiles, tucking herself into his side again, the effort of sitting up alone for five seconds having proved too much. 

“Dana Scully, not quite the square she appears to be!” he marvels, trying to ignore the clawing panic in his chest at the thought that he’ll never know all her secrets, never hear all her stories, never get to — her fingers tighten on his thigh, digging in as she breathes out a careful, practiced breath, and it’s clear she’s in a hell of a lot more pain than he even realized. 

He swallows his next stupid remark and says instead: “Frohike told me the lollipops work fastest.”

“Gimme one.” 

He can barely hear her whisper. He wants to scream and scream until his throat shreds. 

He digs into the bag at his feet and comes up with an orange one. It’s just a piece of candy — albeit one that could get him fired, or even arrested — but he hands it to her, unwrapped, freighted with all the terrible might of his hopes for her: _let it help her, let it make her better, let it give us time — give me time to find a cure _… 

He rearranges the two of them so that he’s in the corner of the couch, sprawled diagonally, and she’s sitting in the vee of his legs with her back against his chest, the fit of her body against his so perfect that he wants to weep. 

He watches the hubris-fueled Nazis get their faces melted off by angels of death, and by the time the wooden crate goes into the vast warehouse full of identical crates (with the blatantly false promise of the Ark’s being studied by “top men” — where’s he heard shit like _that_ before?), she’s breathing easier and has relaxed into a warm, nearly-boneless heap practically on top of him. 

God, _god_, he has so little to be grateful for right now, but her trust — and the relief of her agony, however temporary — these things he finds himself telling over and over in his mind like the beads of a rosary for a religion of which he is the sole devotee. 

_Please,_ he implores the Great Whomever: _Please, please. Take her pain. Make her whole. Keep her here. _

_Please._

**************

In the silence after he clicks the TV off, thinking she’s asleep — he's more than ready to pass the night in this position despite the fact that his left leg went numb an hour ago — Scully sighs, “Hey Mulder?”

“What, baby?” Low and gentle enough not to break the spell or wake her all the way, it comes out before he can edit himself. He braces for her retort — nothing. 

She’s quiet for long enough that he’s again sure she’s gone under, but then:

“D’you think we could’ve loved each other? Like in a different life?” she says softly, and the only thing he can say, over the sudden clamoring of his stupid, heavy, thumping heart is: “We already love each other in this one.” 

“Don’t be dense,” she rebukes him, voice still soft but clear. “You know what I mean.” 

He does, of course he does. And there’s no time left to play the fool. 

“Yes,” he answers truthfully, shifting so that the words spill directly into her ear, for her alone. “I think we could have, and — Scully, I think we will.”

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs, light as gossamer in his arms. “There isn’t time, not anymore. Maybe we’ll get lucky the next time around.” 

He can’t speak, he can’t promise, he can’t. 

The heaviness of sleep finally takes her for awhile, but he stays awake, keeps vigil, makes deals in his head with a dozen devils who may or may not be listening. Some are, he’s positive, but it will be the next morning’s work to find out which ones. 

Meanwhile, he will be her shelter, for as long as she will let him. 

This he can do.


End file.
